Hermione Granger and the Forty-Year Old Virgin
by Captainraychill
Summary: At age fourteen, Draco Malfoy insults a legendary sex witch – a mistake that both he and his penis still regret at age forty.
1. Chapter 1

**AT AGE FOURTEEN, DRACO MALFOY INSULTS A LEGENDARY SEX WITCH - A MISTAKE THAT BOTH HE AND HIS PENIS STILL REGRET AT AGE FORTY.**

**Warnings/Contains: **Explicit sexual content and language. A brief chan (underage) scene of a sexual nature and a brief slash (homosexual) scene of a sexual nature. Angst.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter. No profit is being made by me.

**Author's Notes:** Thank you to my wonderful beta, UnseenLibrarian! You are awesome! Any remaining mistakes are mine alone. This story opens when Draco is fourteen, the summer between Prisoner of Azkaban and Goblet of Fire. Credit to June Carter Cash and Merle Kilgore for writing "The Ring of Fire", a song popularized by Johnny Cash.

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**HERMIONE GRANGER AND THE FORTY-YEAR OLD VIRGIN**

_I fell into a burning ring of fire._

_I went down, down, down,_

_And the flames went higher._

_And it burns, burns, burns_

_The ring of fire,_

_The ring of fire._

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE**

**Age Fourteen**

Draco Malfoy was not happy with his sex witch. His father was going to hear about this!

**Twenty Minutes Earlier**

Draco could not _wait_ to see his sex witch. After years of hearing mysterious whispers about the legendary whore – or high priestess, as Father insisted on calling her – he was finally fourteen, the age when all pure-blood wizards of good breeding were deflowered - as Mother insisted on calling it - at the Temple Rati-Rahasya.

"Temple," Draco scoffed softly.

"Yeah, temple," said Crabbe to his left.

"Temple," echoed Goyle to his right.

Draco knew they were just parroting him and had no idea what he meant. Their thick brains were probably impressed by the ostentatious brothel. The three of them and their fathers had traveled by Portkey (a golden statue of a curvy, naked woman with enormous tits!) directly from the dining room of Malfoy Manor to the spectacular terrace of Rati-Rahasya.

The temple overlooked a sapphire-blue lake and a mountainous, green jungle. The air was hot and smelled like spices. Draco didn't know if they were in India, Peru, Belize or some cleverly transfigured space in Wales. Inside, the brothel was overwrought (for his refined taste) with elaborately carved marble, brilliant silk curtains and tasseled floor cushions. Draco had been certain Father would demand better seating and had been shocked when the arse of Lucius Malfoy had sat down on a pillow _on the floor_. Mr. Crabbe and Mr. Goyle had done the same, and their sons, led by Draco, had followed suit. Strange music, with driving drumbeats and jangly bells, filled the fragrant air.

Refreshments appeared before them – a glowing, purple liquor and trays of spicy and sweet delicacies. Crabbe and Goyle were stuffing their fat faces and swigging the liquor until their heads started to loll even more than usual. Draco knew better. He abstained from food and only sipped his drink. It wouldn't heighten the mood if he vomited all over his sex witch or had to run off to the loo in the middle of his first shagging. Or Gods forbid, let loose with a fart. Even with measured sips, his drink, which tasted like licorice, filled his head with a blurry warmth.

Of course, Draco knew all about sex already. He'd wacked off for years, and that felt bloody brilliant. He was so good at it that he could shoot his load two whole meters. Almost. And he'd discreetly ordered a few informative books by special owl. In the privacy of his curtained bed at home and at Hogwarts, he'd read them cover to cover and studied every moving illustration. The positions he found most intriguing were the Dexterous Butterfly, the Slippery Python and the Erotic Accordion.

Such moves would require strength, endurance and flexibility. Ever since he'd joined the Quidditch team, Draco had started a rigorous exercise program. His fit physique, coupled with his incredible good looks and the fact that he was a Malfoy, made him the natural successor to The Title. Nicholas Nott had just graduated, after all, and there could be only one Slytherin Sex God. Theo might have been competition for the role except for the fact that he liked blokes in general (and Draco, in particular). But Draco was all about the birds. He had a list of girls he wanted to shag –rated by looks, weight, tit size, overall quality of bum, blood status, house affiliation and intelligence. Fourth Year was going to be wicked. He was half-hard just thinking about it.

"Whaazzat?" Crabbe slurred.

"Pretty sparkle lights," said Goyle.

Draco noticed two whirlwinds of dazzling light swirling in front of them – one green and one blue. Soon, the sparkles became gossamer veils and, through a whirl of silky green and blue, enticing _things_ began to appear. Legs and half-covered breasts and long hair and _women_. The two dancers swayed to the exotic music, their hips twitching and thrusting with each drumbeat. Their faces were half-veiled, their eyes flashed and they wore jewelry everywhere, even _in their bellybuttons!_

Draco's dick got so hard that it ached. He couldn't remember it ever being that hard in his young life.

"Vincent Crabbe," said the woman in green. "I am called Inati."

"Gregory Goyle," said the woman in blue. "I am called Heather."

Crabbe and Goyle started giggling like morons and never stopped as the women led them through a painted archway and out of the room.

Draco shifted on his pillow, wanting nothing more than to reach down and give his stiff dick a stroke or three or fifteen. He heard Mr. Crabbe and Mr. Goyle chuckling and looked up to meet his father's smirk. Draco blushed and looked down, taking a sip of his purple liquor.

Suddenly, another whirlwind of dazzling light appeared before him, this one red. Green and blue were better than red when it came to house colors, but when it came to sex, red was far superior. It was the color of passion, of fire, of love. His whore was the best whore, naturally. The high priestess. Draco leaned forward, eager, his heart pounding. The glittering, red light dropped low to the ground and became like gossamer flames. The _things_ that began to appear were shocking but not in a good way – bat-like ears and enormous, bare feet and bulging, blue eyes.

An ugly house-elf stood before him, wearing red scarves and jewelry in its lopsided bellybutton. Draco's erection withered.

_Slytherin's saggy sack! __No fucking way!_

Draco stared at his father in horror. Lucius Malfoy merely raised his left eyebrow. Draco was a master at interpreting his father's many subtle expressions, and this one clearly said, in a haughty tone, _What the hell, my son? Are you questioning my judgment as your sire and the reigning patriarch of the Malfoy dynasty?_

"Draco Malfoy," the elf squeaked. "Please follow Belda to the chamber of Mistress."

_Oh, thank the Gods! _

Draco expelled a shaky breath of relief and scowled at Father, Mr. Crabbe and Mr. Goyle as they broke out into riotous laughter. They were rolling on their floor pillows by the time Draco followed the elf through the painted archway and up a narrow staircase dimly lit with gold lanterns.

"Elf," he snapped, still angry. He loathed being teased.

"Yes, Sir?"

"Is your mistress beautiful?"

"Oh, yes, Sir, Mistress is the most beautiful woman in the whole world."

"Good," Draco said with a sage nod, somewhat mollified.

The elf continued, "Mistress has served in the temple for twenty-six years. Sir is a very lucky young man to -"

"Wait!" Draco stopped two steps from the second floor. "Twenty-six years? Is she a hag?"

"No, Sir, Mistress is a woman," the elf said, puzzled.

"No, you wrinkly scab. I mean, is she _old_?" Draco whipped out his wand and started scribbling silver numbers in the air. Twenty-six plus – what? – perhaps sixteen? Carry the one. Equals forty-two! "That's older than Mother!"

The elf lifted its hairy chin and said with surprising pride, "Mistress is timeless."

Timeless? Draco stared at the "42" hovering in the air and then swept it away with a flick of his hand. This witch was a professional. Naturally (or rather unnaturally) she would use charms and potions to retain her youth and beauty, to keep her body fit. Her job depended on it. Draco snickered, wondering if Crabbe and Goyle knew they were getting shagged by a couple of old ladies.

"Well, what are you waiting for, you arse blister?" Draco asked the elf. "Take me to her."

"The golden door, Sir. Ring the bell and then enter." With this rather snippy reply, the elf disappeared in a swirl of red light.

Draco gazed down the dim corridor and saw the golden door. As he walked toward it, he passed through a gauntlet of portraits – painted women whispering seductive words to him through their painted veils. "Look at you, handsome." "Nice hair." "Bet you've got a nice, hot cock on you." Draco tugged at the stiff collar of his robes as he felt his temperature rise.

"He looks like White Snake!" one of the portraits exclaimed in delight. Before Draco could contemplate the identity of White Snake, he noticed that the golden door seemed to shimmer, almost like a mirage. Did everything shimmer and glitter here? As he stopped before the door, he realized it was formed of carved panels, like Ghiberti's Gates of Paradise. Each panel featured a tiny, carved couple shagging, their movements like ripples of liquid gold.

"The Dexterous Butterfly!" Draco cried out when he recognized one of the positions.

He watched, riveted, as the man's tiny, gold penis slipped in and out of the woman's tiny, gold pussy. Their limbs fluttered like wings as they moved. Unconscious of his actions, Draco reached out with one fingertip toward the woman's tiny, jiggling boobs.

"Don't interrupt them!" one of the portraits snapped. Draco jumped back. "Just ring the bell and enter as you were told."

Draco sneered at the portrait and rebelliously scanned the other panels. He saw the Slippery Python and the Greedy Oyster, too. He saw women with women and men with men and _groups_ of people, all shagging each other in a great tangle, the expressions on their gold faces somewhere between agony and bliss. Draco knew from his books that people made ridiculous faces while fucking.

When he pulled the red tassel at the end of a cord hanging from the ceiling, he expected to hear a delicate tinkle of sound. Instead, from somewhere high above, came the deep, sonorous tolling of a large bell. He checked his breath and muttered a Spearmint Charm, then ran his hand through his sleek hair one more time. Confident he smelled and looked good – damned good - he opened the golden door and entered the chamber of his sex witch. He hoped she had long, curly hair. He loved wild hair.

What Draco saw on the bed took his breath away.

_Grindelwald's galloping gonads!_

"Ha ha, very funny!" he said in a loud, mocking voice. He wanted his father to be able to hear him, from whatever dark nook he and his cronies were spying. "First, a manky elf. And now _this_? There's no way I'm fool enough to believe this fat, old crone is a legendary sex witch!"

The legendary sex witch in question was not amused.

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**TO BE CONTINUED**

**Thank you for reading! Reviews are welcomed!**


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO**

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Izolda Romanov wore red and lay upon a bed that had absorbed the sexual energy of the high priestesses of the Temple Rati-Rahasya for three thousand years. Guests with heightened magical perception had experienced shattering orgasms from just touching the carved headboard. House-elves regularly passed out from pleasure when changing the sheets. Izolda felt a lovely, shivering sensation over every inch of her golden skin, but she held her orgasm at bay. She had the power to bring herself to ultimate bliss, untouched, by thought alone. At the moment, however, her thoughts were otherwise occupied as she considered the stupidity of Lucius Malfoy's heir.

How _dare_ the pasty whelp call her a fat, old crone?

Her age, which was a mere forty-four, was made manifest only by the faint lines around her dark eyes and the corners of her lush lips. The lustrous streak of white in her sleek fall of black hair wasn't the result of age. It was the only scar to mark her sexual battle with a seduction of incubi. Seven, to be exact. She'd drained the creatures to save a small village in Nepal. And as for her body – well, she _was_ the earthly incarnation of the Goddess Rati.

Women weren't meant to be sharp slices of bone and shadow. They were meant to be soft, radiant and gorgeously curved, which Izolda was - from the luscious weight of her breasts to the alluring nip of her waist to the lavish flare of her hips.

And even if she'd looked like a troll's big toe – which she didn't – she would still be sought after by wise men and women the world over for her mastery of the sensual arts. A voluptuary, an adventuress and a generous soul – she made her lovers tremble with a glance, whimper at her touch and scream to the deity of their choice as she brought them to unparalleled heights of rapture with the erotic blessings of her mouth, ass and cunt.

But this insolent, little… snow kitten (Izolda smiled) and his virgin prick weren't getting near her sacred delights if he didn't adjust his bad attitude.

When it became apparent that he no longer believed he was the victim of a trick, Snow Kitten glared at Izolda and said haughtily, "If I'm not satisfied, my father will hear about it. I demand someone else, someone younger. And fit."

Izolda moved, sitting up at the edge of her bed with a graceful slide of long hair and red silk. She crossed her ankles, the little bells on her ankle bracelets ringing softly. Her meditations had given her incredible patience, but a slow anger began to burn deep in her stomach at the boy's impertinent words.

_My father will hear about it. _

Snow Kitten said those words with practiced spite. And pride. Pride in his father. Izolda smiled at the memory of Lucius Malfoy, her little White Snake. She'd liked him from the moment she'd seen his pointy face, when he was only fourteen years old. He'd tried so hard - tried and failed - to hide his nervousness as he'd gripped the white snake's head that topped his silver cane. What teenage boy carried a walking stick? She'd thought it was an affectation, like his stylish robes, until she'd noticed his all-but-imperceptible limp.

"I have great admiration for your father," Izolda said. "He came to me at fourteen, just like you. Unlike you, he showed me the proper respect and humility, and I gave him unsurpassed pleasure. He left my chamber as a man. But you, Snow Kitten, will remain a child unless you make amends."

"Snow Kitten?! My name is Draco Malfoy."

She ignored his furious outburst and said, "Incidentally, I won't take anything less than you falling to your knees and begging my forgiveness, both literally and through the worship of your mouth."

Resting her weight back on her hands, Izolda uncrossed her ankles. The bells around them chimed delicately. She spread her knees apart, very slowly, and watched Snow Kitten's gray eyes grow wide and his face flush pink. She knew he couldn't see anything through her skirt, but he stared with fierce concentration at the layers of red silk, trying to see beyond them to the mystery between her legs. There was so much conflict and emotion in his expression – fear, lust, longing, fascination – that she felt her heart soften despite the boy's insults. He would grow into a handsome man, like his father. Strong and proud.

"Come here," she said gently. "I will teach you how."

After a long pause, Snow Kitten took several steps forward, moving awkwardly due to the erection he tried to hide behind his robes.

"Now, bow before me," Izolda said.

* * *

_Through the worship of your mouth…_

Draco stared at the red silk hiding the whore's _divine treasure_, as one of his books called it. _Pussy_, he thought. It's a pussy, and it's right there! His mouth was dry, his heart was pounding and his palms were sweaty. He was terrified and enthralled.

What did a real pussy look like? What if it smelled or tasted funny? He had no idea how to use his mouth – his tongue - on one. What if he did it wrong? What if she laughed at him? What if she told the others how bad he was? What if she told his _father_?

"Snow Kitten!" a raucous voice cried out. "Bow before her!"

Draco turned and saw a pair of Senegal parrots perched, side by side, on a swing in a large, golden cage. The birds were green and gold, with gray heads and brilliant, yellow eyes.

"Bow before her, Snow Kitten!" they squawked in unison. "Bow before her!"

Draco gazed back at the woman waiting for him on the bed. She raised one dark eyebrow and asked, "Scared?" Draco lifted his chin defiantly.

"A Malfoy bows to no one," he said. "Much less a common whore."

An eerie silence gripped the room, and a chill traveled down Draco's spine. He only had time to think _time is standing still_ before all hell broke loose.

"Oh, no, he didn't!" one of the parrots cried out.

"Oh, yes, he did!" the other one screeched.

"Big mistaaaake!" they sang together.

The sex witch floated off the bed, black hair and red silk lashing wildly around her. She glared down at Draco, and then her pupils bleached white. A blast of heat slapped him across the face. He stumbled back until he tripped and fell on his arse. When he sat up, he realized the walls were on fire! The witch flew toward him, more terrible than any demon ever imagined, chanting words he didn't understand in a fierce voice.

"What are you doing?" he shouted. "Stop it!"

"Beg forgiveness! Beg!" the parrots screeched. "Or be cursed forever!"

"Cursed?" Draco shrieked. "Don't you dare curse me! I'll tell my father - "

Before he could finish his favorite threat, he was flat on his back, and the woman was over him. Her hands held his face, each finger as hot as the point of a dueling wand. He gasped in horror as her white eyes turned red, and the ring of flames around them grew higher. He was going to die, burnt up as black as a licorice snap. This couldn't happen. He was too young and good-looking to die! He had the skin of an angel! Mother had told him so!

"Draco Lucius Malfoy," the witch said in a resonant voice. "For insult given, may my curse upon you endure unto your death. May all of your progeny be banned from the sacred temple of Rati-Rahasya. May you only make amends and be restored by demonstrating to me the virtues of humility and respect."

Despite the ominous words and the fire and the squawking parrots, Draco became aware of one of the whore's hands moving down his body. Her touch was soft and seductive, leaving a trail of tingles as it stroked down his throat and chest and stomach. And lower…

When she grasped his half-hard dick through his robes, he was consumed by a pleasure so intense that he closed his eyes and cried out. The sound was so wanton he would have been embarrassed if he could have felt anything more than arousal. But he couldn't. He was fully erect again. Magic radiated through him, pulsing hot and vital like blood. It filled his chest with the swell of triumph, the drums of victory – with the virile, potent thunder of All-Powerful Fuck. He was coming like he'd never come before. He realized that the orgasms he'd given himself in his bed and shower were nothing. They were like mere drops of water, and this was the ocean crashing high, the earth spinning wild, the explosion of an incandescent sun.

A universe of pure bliss and infinite potential.

When Draco finally recovered, he gazed up into the beautiful eyes of his sex witch with awe and adoration.

"To see what you'll be missing, Snow Kitten," she whispered before squeezing his dick inside her fist.

He felt a jolt of excruciating pain.

Then he screamed.

And then he fainted.

* * *

**TO BE CONTINUED**

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**Chapter Notes:**

Rati is the Hindu goddess of love, carnal desire, lust, passion and sexual pleasure. Rati-Rahasya means "secrets of Rati" and is also the title of a Sanskrit erotic work. Rati's mount is a parrot, hence, the addition of the two Senegal parrots, which can live up to fifty years in captivity.

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**Thank you for reading – reviewed are welcomed!**


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE**

* * *

Draco couldn't tell his father that the sex witch had worked some mysterious curse upon him or that he was still a virgin. Not when Lucius Malfoy looked so proud and happy, as if he'd just beaten a Mudblood with Abraxas, his snake cane.

"My son!" Lucius said on the terrace of Rati-Rahasya, unable to contain his smile. "Now, you're a man."

"Yeah," Draco said weakly.

"Yeah," Crabbe said to his left.

"Yeah," Goyle echoed to his right.

Draco glanced at each of them. They couldn't stop grinning. Crabbe's cheeks were bright pink, and Goyle's lips were red and swollen. Both of their eyes were glazed with stupid pleasure, as if they'd taken drugging potions. Should he look like that, too? He tried to smile, but the effort made him feel sick to his stomach.

The pain in his dick was gone, but something wasn't right. What had that bitch done to him? If she could set a bloody room on fire with the power of her mind, what could she do to his twig and berries? He just wanted to go home, lock himself in his room and examine all his parts to make sure they were unharmed.

Oh, God, what if she'd shrunk his junk? What if he really _was_ the size of a twig and berries? What if she'd turned him bright green? What if he were really, really, really hairy? What if -

"Won't be able to keep you lot away from the birds now, will we?" Mr. Crabbe joked.

"Better remember those spells the witches taught you," Mr. Goyle said.

"Spells?" Crabbe and Goyle asked in unison, and Draco was reminded of the sex witch's Senegal parrots.

"To protect you against diseased slags and unwanted fatherhood, of course," Lucius said with disdain. "Draco will teach you."

"Yes, Father," Draco answered. He had no idea what spells they were discussing.

He was so fucked.

It felt like weeks before he was back at the Manor, in his bedroom, alone. The second he'd locked and warded the door, he had grabbed his dick through his clothing. Everything _felt_ normal. He stood in front of the large mirror on his wall, his eyes shut tight as he unbuttoned his robes and stripped down to nothing but his socks and underwear. Fighting dread, eyes still shut, he reached one trembling hand into his pants. With a rush of relief, he realized he hadn't been shrunk or covered with disgusting hair. He pushed his pants down his thighs, peered through one slitted eye and saw that he wasn't bright green either. In fact, he looked perfectly normal – pink and a few inches long when soft.

"Oh, thank fuck," he groaned, almost laughing as he rebounded from terror.

He examined his bollocks and found them unchanged as well. For good measure, he bent over to have a look at his arsehole in the mirror. He'd never really looked at it before, but it seemed like a healthy arsehole to him.

Dumb witch!

Draco crawled into his enormous bed and immediately fell asleep with his precious penis in his hand and a smile on his lips.

* * *

The curse did not become apparent until the next day.

Every morning for almost two years, Draco had woken up with an erection. Groggy, he would stumble into his bathroom and piss in a golden chamber pot charmed to catch any pee that went off course due to his aim being spoiled by a hard dick. Then he'd stumble into bed again for a leisurely wank. This morning, he was back among his pillows before he realized he had no morning wood.

"That's odd," he muttered.

He took his dick in his hand, gave it a few lazy strokes and felt pleasure bloom through him. With a contented sigh, he tugged harder, enjoying the sensation. It felt good, as usual. And then it felt wrong. He looked down to see that his dick was still flaccid in his hand.

"What the hell…" He wanked faster and harder. He closed his eyes and thought of the naked women in his sex books. He imagined curvy bodies covered by sheer veils, of dark eyes and wild, curly hair. But five minutes later, he was still as limp as a fat noodle and starting to panic.

_To see what you'll be missing, Snow Kitten…_

"Please," he begged. "Please, no!"

Desperate, Draco wanked at a furious pace. He wanked until his hand cramped. He wanked while a house-elf Apparated into his room with breakfast, screamed and then Disapparated. He wanked until frustration twisted into knots deep within his groin and became a burning pain. He remembered the flames all around him in the sex witch's chamber. The ring of fire. The agony. The curse.

_May my curse upon you endure unto your death._

"No, no, no, no! Nooooo!"

At the young age of fourteen, Draco Malfoy lost his ability to produce morning wood – or any other kind of wood. It didn't matter how much he touched himself. It didn't matter how explicitly he fantasized. It all ended in pain, longing and horrible frustration. He couldn't get hard, and he couldn't come.

He wrote threats and demands to the whore who'd cursed him. He didn't know the secret location of the brothel, so he addressed the rolled parchments to the _"High Priestess" at "Temple" Rati-Rahasya_. He sent them by owl, but the owls never returned. Ten birds were lost. Then twenty, until Mother wondered if there was some sort of owl plague ravaging Britain.

"There was an owl plague when I was at Hogwarts," she said. "Wiped out the entire population of the Owlery. Its cause remains a mystery to this day. I suspect tainted voles."

Of course, the most probable solution to Draco's problem was to tell his father everything, but he was too ashamed and too proud, all at once. He couldn't bring himself to confess his lies, his virginity and the fact that his dick – the dick entrusted with the task of continuing the Malfoy family line - was now a cursed object.

He didn't want to be a disappointment.

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**Thanks for reading - reviews are welcomed! :)**

**This chapter's short so I'll post another one very soon.**


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER FOUR**

* * *

**Age Fifteen**

It was Crabbe's un-Silenced wanking in the dorms that made Draco realize he had to resume his experiments. That, and Pansy's smiles and the white shirts she wore, which were two sizes too small. If someone as stupid as Vincent Crabbe could get hard and have an orgasm, then there was no reason why Draco Malfoy couldn't. And if Draco could, then he could have Pansy. She was so eager for him that she practically crawled into his lap and licked his face every time she saw him.

After dinner, alone in the hushed Potions' classroom, he opened a thick notebook to its first blank page. It had been Disillusioned in the bottom of his school trunk for almost three weeks. He pulled a quill out of his bag and wrote, in his narrow handwriting, _Experiment Number One Hundred Sixty-Four_.

* * *

**Age Sixteen**

"Oh, Draco, yes!" Pansy cried out. They had abandoned their patrol in the shadows of a fifth floor corridor.

She felt so bloody good. Her skin was silky and warm. Kissing had made her lips red and swollen. Her white shirt was unbuttoned to the waist, revealing perfect tits covered with pale blue lace. She looked debauched and gorgeous – and she could be his. If only.

Longing and desire burned through him, gripping him in a vise of familiar pain, but his dick remained soft and limp. Useless. She would notice soon.

When she reached for his belt, he cursed and shoved her away. He called her a slag.

She didn't speak to him for three months. Not until he grew confident in his ability to Obliviate her safely, which he did right after Christmas hols.

All was forgotten and, therefore, forgiven.

* * *

**Age Seventeen**

In the spring of their seventh year at Hogwarts, neither Draco nor Theo was the Slytherin Sex God. They were at the Manor more than at school, both branded with the Dark Mark to make their fathers proud, both terrified and drenched in the crimson blood of all they had seen and done.

One night, after torturing a Muggle under the watchful eye of Mr. Nott, Theo snapped.

As they walked to their rooms, Theo grabbed Draco by the lapel of his robes and pulled him into a shadowed corridor. Draco remembered Pansy, and then Theo's lips were on his, Theo's tongue in his mouth, and Draco was overcome by a swell of longing.

"I want you so much," Theo whispered. His fingers gripped Draco's hips. "Make me forget."

Draco felt Theo's erection rubbing against his thigh. He heard Theo's moans and swallowed them with hot, open-mouthed kisses. Filled with jealousy and fascination, he reached for Theo's belt and unbuckled it. Within seconds, he had freed Theo's dick. He cast a dim _Lumos_ so he could see it. It was so hard and so long. He touched it gently, and Theo gasped. Then he stroked it in his fist until Theo shuddered and came with a cry. Draco stared at the white liquid shooting out of the tip. He rubbed his thumb through it, smearing it – and wishing.

When Draco felt Theo's palm press against his trousers, against his soft dick, Draco cursed and stepped away.

"I'm not gay," he said. "Obviously. Consider this a favor for a friend. Let's just forget it happened, all right?"

He left Theo, alone, in the dark.

* * *

**Age Eighteen**

Nina's right hand was getting tired. She felt like she'd been at it for hours. With a weary twist of her body, approximating a dance move, she tossed her curly hair over her shoulder and switched to her left hand.

"Get me hard."

That's all the man had said to her down on the floor of the club. She'd named her price. He'd doubled it _and_ paid her right away, stuffing the bills into her cherry-red bra. Thank God, because nothing was working on this poor bloke's prick. She'd used all the normal tricks and then some. He was still as soft an oyster. It was actually kind of disgusting and pitiful. Sad, since he was so good-looking with those cheekbones and that white-blond hair.

Surely, he would give up soon and tell her to stop. He'd paid her enough that she could take the rest of the night off, and she really wanted to see the sequel to that movie about the talking pig. The first one had been so cute.

Ten minutes later, she sighed and stopped.

"Listen," she said. "Maybe you need something more… hardcore. I can hook you up with my friend. She's into leather, whips, discipline. You know, a dominatrix."

"Does she have curly hair, too?" he asked, staring at the ceiling.

"Baby, she has whatever kind of hair you want."

* * *

**Age Nineteen**

Draco stood in the center of a vast cavern, deep in the jungles of the Congo. He was naked except for the large, red flower stuck to his penis with honey. His body was slathered in a green paste. He held a gorilla skull in one hand and a sedated, baby spider monkey in the other. A dead boa constrictor draped around his shoulders, and a long, white feather stuck out of his arse. All around him, the pygmies danced and chanted to the rhythm of the drums.

He was beginning to suspect that this so-called sacred ceremony was a waste of ten thousand Galleons.

* * *

**Age Twenty**

"She's dead," his father said.

Although Draco had just left his mother in the parlor five minutes ago, a lance of fear shot through him.

"Who's dead?"

"Izolda Romanov."

"Who?"

Lucius Malfoy looked up, incredulous, and Draco saw the gloss of his unshed tears. He had never seen his father cry, not even during the war. Now, he sat slumped in his leather chair before the fire in his study, weepy and cradling a glass of Firewhiskey in one hand and Abraxas in the other.

"Who?" Lucius said. "The sex witch who took your virginity at fourteen. The sex witch who took _my_ virginity at fourteen. And, may your mother forgive me, the most sexually perfect woman who has ever existed."

Draco fell down onto his knees.

"That's more like it," Lucius muttered.

_May you only make amends and be restored by demonstrating to me the virtues of humility and respect._

Draco had begun to suspect, in the last few months, that he should have apologized to the sex witch instead of demanded, groveled instead of threatened. But now, she was dead.

The curse could never be broken.

His father spent the next few days drinking and confessing he'd loved that Izolda had called him White Snake. He admitted that he was responsible for the owl "plague" at Hogwarts, having sent bird after bird to Rati-Rahasya, begging to see the sex witch just one more time. The owls had never returned.

Draco spent the next few days drinking at seedy taverns, flinging hexes, destroying property, wanking unsuccessfully and dreaming of white kittens lost in the snow.

Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months, and this became his life.

* * *

**Age Twenty-One**

"I don't care if you want to die," a woman's voice said. "But don't you dare take my sister with you."

Draco knew he was in St. Mungo's, but he couldn't remember why. It hurt to do anything but sleep. He opened his eyes and saw the woman standing at his bedside. She was beautiful, with straight, dark hair and a fierce determination in her blue eyes. She wore sophisticated, yellow robes and was radiant in the sunlight.

"Do you understand me?" she asked.

This was Daphne's little sister.

When he didn't answer her immediately, she took off one of her white gloves and slapped her palm across his cheek with a resounding crack. Pain radiated through his bruised body.

"Bloody hell!"

"I said, do you understand me, Draco Malfoy?"

"Yes, I do, Astoria Greengrass!"

"Good."

He watched, captivated by both her nerve and her grace, as she slipped her hand back into her glove. Its edge was embroidered with tiny, yellow flowers. She was at the door before he spoke.

"I don't want to die," he said.

Instead of ignoring him, instead of just leaving him there like the worthless piece of shit he was, she turned back to him and smiled. Her face was gentle now, and possibly, the loveliest thing he had ever seen. Her blue eyes were kind.

"Then perhaps you shouldn't be so careless with your life," she whispered.

Perhaps not.

* * *

**Age Twenty-Four**

Draco didn't know why he had thought it would be any different now, why he had fooled himself into believing that love and marriage vows might somehow shatter the curse that had plagued him for ten years. Perhaps, he'd just been in denial. Afraid of the truth and of her rejection.

Astoria deserved better.

"It's all right," she said tenderly. "I'm sure it's my fault. I'm not very experienced. We can try again soon."

He was turned away from her, in their moonlit wedding bed, the image of her body in white silk burned into his mind and his heart. Her soft caresses and self-recriminations were torture. He should push her away, like he had Pansy and Theo and so many others, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Not again.

Draco turned to his wife and stared into her beautiful eyes, more terrified than he had been since the war.

"It's not your fault," he said. "I have something to tell you."

* * *

**Age Twenty-Six**

Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy was born on August 2, 2006.

He wasn't Draco's, but Draco fell in love with him at first sight. He was tiny, red and wrinkled, with impossibly tiny hands and feet and a tuft of white hair on his head. Love, fear, awe and the urge to protect at all costs – these feelings twined together into one primitive need-emotion Draco couldn't name. He understood, as he never had before, why Mother had lied to Voldemort about Potter's death. He understood, at last, how much his father loved him.

"Draco, listen to me," Astoria said. "I'm only going to say this once."

It physically hurt to look away from Scorpius, but Draco gazed at his exhausted wife and waited. She took precautions, casting a _Muffliato_ and speaking in French.

"You haven't asked," she said. "But the man was nothing. A means to an end. Scorpius' coloring is the result of an irrevocable charm. He will be pale with white-blond hair and gray eyes. The rest I left to chance."

She took Draco's hand in hers and then placed their hands together upon Scorpius' warm, little back, engulfing it.

"He is our son," she said." "He is _your_ son. You are _his_ father. Nothing will ever, ever change that."

With a flash of insight, the incredible feeling inside of Draco had a word.

_Mine_.

The realization filled him up, consumed him. It lodged inside his chest and his throat. He started to cry, captivated by the sight of his tears on the pink skin of Scorpius' reed-thin arm.

* * *

**Age Thirty**

Rita Skeeter hunted for dirt, desperate for a scandal, but the divorce was ironclad by its amicability. She knew if she embellished a single fact or mentioned the son that the Malfoy and Greengrass clans would ruin her forever. Enough time had passed since the war for both families to be truly powerful again. So instead, she wrote about Cormac McLaggen's affair with a sixth year Gryffindor boy.

Draco knew the terms were good, better than they were for most divorced fathers. Joint custody, alternating weeks with Scorpius, and a clause to spend holidays together regardless of whatever the future might bring. After an acceptable amount of time, Astoria would marry this man she loved, and Draco would have to learn to tolerate his presence at Christmas, Easter and birthdays.

He wasn't losing as much as he could have. Astoria had even given him the first week. So why did he feel like he was losing _everything_?

"Remember, he's your son," Astoria said. They stood at the front door of the Manor. "Nothing will ever change that."

He knew that. He did. He could trust Astoria's honor with his life, with Scorpius' life. But the terrible sense of loss still remained.

"Do you understand me?" Astoria asked. "Or do I have to slap you again?"

Draco laughed and, suddenly, he recognized the source of his pain. It wasn't just about Scorpius. It was about Astoria, too – his wife, his best friend, the woman who had saved his life. The only person who knew the truth about him. His secret keeper.

"I love you," he said before pulling her into his arms for one, last, heartbroken kiss.

* * *

**Age Thirty-One**

Scorpius needed him, so Draco couldn't fall apart or try to destroy himself as he had before. He might have no hope for a normal life, but he still had a life, and it was worth living to the very best of his abilities.

He gave up looking for a cure. No spell or potion designed to give old wizards erections had worked. No Muggle pills. This was not mere dysfunction. It was an uncommonly powerful curse. He had conducted well over a thousand experiments throughout the years, but nothing had succeeded. It was time the look to the future, not to the past.

He lived in the Manor with his parents but took a job in a place that fascinated him, a small but legendary magical library in London that specialized in rare, ancient texts. Its secret entrance was in the British Museum, near the quartzite sculpture of the head of Amenhotep III. He served as assistant to the brilliant head librarian, Mr. Bracken, who had been born in 1864. The man had searched for decades for a worthy successor and had finally found him in Draco.

When Scorpius was gone every other week, Draco was lonely and worked long hours. He missed Astoria as well, only now realizing how much comfort she had given him. They'd never had sex, but they'd lain in bed, side by side, touching and sharing leisurely kisses and enjoying the mild, undemanding warmth of clothed embraces. He could have paid for that strange sort of companionship, but Rita Skeeter was always lurking, ready to profit from his disgrace. He would give her nothing to report. He couldn't risk it now.

He expended all his restless energy on rigorous exercise, which took the edge off his inevitable sexual frustration. At an age that many of his peers were becoming soft around the middle (Blaise Zabini and Ron Weasley) Draco became fit. Both women and men noticed. On the night the Patil twins had tempted him to be "the white meat in a twin sandwich", he had politely refused, Apparated home, run three miles and done a thousand crunches before taking a Sleeping Draught and falling into bed. After that, he stopped going out to the Leaky as often. He started wearing sweater vests, bow ties and glasses.

"Oh, look, it's Harry Potter," his father sneered the first time he'd seen Draco's black-rimmed frames.

"Don't be silly, dear," Mother said. "Harry Potter doesn't wear glasses anymore. He got that Muggle lay-sick last year."

* * *

**Age Thirty-Nine**

The abandoned temple perched on a mountaintop, above the jungle and above the clouds. The vines that filled its empty, ruined windows looked like green glass in the sunlight. Stone pillars and statues had cracked and shifted with time and neglect. Draco sat on the floor of a broken terrace, overlooking blue-gray mist.

Once, this place would have made him angry and frustrated because it reminded him of Rati-Rahasya. Now, twenty-five years after the fateful day he'd been cursed, he felt calm and relaxed, at peace. He breathed deeply and evenly and thought of nothing until his heart felt like it was floating up out of his body.

Head Librarian Bracken had encouraged Draco to take this vacation, his first in five years. When he returned to London, Draco discovered his mentor had died right after finishing his translation of a five-thousand year old tablet. He had been one hundred fifty-five years old.

As the new head librarian, Draco moved into Bracken's office after the funeral. He hired a thirty-year old, plain-faced, lesbian Ravenclaw named Concha Twillery as his assistant. Throughout the winter, he made subtle changes until the library, like his life, was well-ordered and exactly as it should be.

All was well.

* * *

**TO BE CONTINUED... Hermione's in the next chapter, I promise!**

**Thank you for reading – reviews are welcomed! :)**


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER FIVE**

* * *

**Age Forty**

The only two things Draco Malfoy wanted for his fortieth birthday were an erection and an orgasm, but he had long since given up hope for either.

Instead, he received several nice gifts. From his mother, a pair of dragon-shaped cufflinks. From his father, a bottle of fine Firewhiskey and a subscription to _Hot, Horny Halfbloods_. (Lucius had bought Draco a dirty magazine subscription every birthday since he'd turned fifteen.) The elves baked him his favorite dessert, a lemon cake with lemon icing. Randomly, they also gave him a ball of red yarn and an acorn. He had no idea why. Scorpius gave him a hand-drawn birthday card ("Dad, You're Old!") and new broom polishing kit. They often flew together. His most thoughtful gift was from Astoria, who gave him a first edition of _Why I Didn't Die When the Augery Cried_. His most peculiar gift was from Pansy. Since marrying Seamus Finnigan, she'd developed a fascination for all things Muggle, although why she thought he'd want something called a Snuggie was a mystery. His assistant librarian, Concha Twillery, gave him a pewter paperweight shaped like a brain.

Then, the day after his birthday, Draco received an unexpected gift. An owl from Granger. Or as he had come to think of her – Hermione Granger, Tomb Raider.

After graduation, everyone had expected Granger to marry Ron Weasley and work for the Ministry, striving to bring justice and light to the universe through heroic bureaucracy. Instead, she and Weasley had split, and she had disappeared. It was only discovered later that she'd joined an archaeological dig in the Valley of the Kings. With her unmatched intelligence and daring, she'd located an undiscovered tomb, rid it of curses and unearthed a treasure trove – both cultural and literal – of sarcophagi, mummies and golden artifacts. One of the objects found was an enchanted pectoral necklace documented by the historians of the wizard pharaoh Ramesses II. Granger had found her passion and her calling – traveling the world to seek lost, magical antiquities.

Every year or so, the _Daily Prophet_ would run an article about her latest adventure. Most included a grainy photo of her scowling at the camera. It was rumored she only returned to England once a year, at Christmas, to visit family and friends for a few weeks before leaving again. Draco hadn't seen her since the Final Battle, over twenty-two years ago.

After he'd assumed the position of head librarian, he had been surprised to find that Bracken had received grizzled, international owls (or eagles or parrots) from Granger three or four times a year, asking for information from the books and scrolls in the library's collection to aid in her treasure hunts.

"Who sent that?" Twillery had asked when a note had arrived on a huge, banana-tree leaf.

"Hermione Granger, Tomb Raider," Draco had answered. Twillery's eyes had lit up. A Muggle-born, she'd shown him an image of Lara Croft on her eye-phone. Ever since, he imagined Granger as quite fit, wearing shorts and a tight top, her bushy hair in a ponytail and guns strapped to her hips. It was a rather pleasing image, which displeased him greatly.

The day after his fortieth birthday, her message was more imperious than usual.

_Malfoy,_

_I am on the verge of a great discovery, regarding the Mayans and the pyramid of Nohoch Mul in Quintana Roo. However, I need more than just information from the library this time. I need a text in hand. Send to this address, by whatever means necessary and with whatever protections you see fit, the journal of the scribe of Conquistador Francisco de Montejo. I believe a magical code is imbedded in its pages, which will aid in my vital research. I promise to return the book in pristine condition when my investigation is complete. Thank you._

_Hermione Granger_

"Tomb Raider," Draco muttered compulsively. "And you're dreaming, Granger."

The journal of de Montejo's scribe wasn't the most rare, ancient or celebrated book in the library, not by far, but all the texts in his care were irreplaceable and, therefore, priceless. They needed to be protected and kept in a carefully-controlled environment, not be carried around the jungles of Mexico strapped to the sweaty, naked thigh of an intrepid but reckless explorer.

Since banter over an ocean, on different hemispheres, wasn't rapid-fire, Draco was forced to adjust his wit when he replied.

_Hermione Granger, Tomb Raider,_

_Define pristine condition. Was the funerary mask of Queen Zenobia left in pristine condition when you shattered it to bits? Was that underwater temple at Mahabaliparam left in pristine condition when you somehow managed to burn it to the seafloor? Was a certain, secret amulet that you allowed to be eaten by a certain, hungry tiger later found in pristine condition in a pile of tiger shite? Forgive me if I don't trust you with a fragile, five-hundred year old text of considerable historical and magical significance. It belongs in the library and will stay here. Have fun eating grubs and swinging on jungle vines._

_Sincerely,_

_Draco Malfoy_

Draco smiled. Granger should have his reply in about a week. Perhaps a week later, he'd have a fiery and entertaining retort from her. They had traded more messages in a year than she and Bracken had traded in the previous five. He couldn't deny that she was one of the highlights of his job.

Even if lingering thoughts of a curvy, dirty tomb raider in shorts did result in the need for a few extra crunches before bedtime.

Fourteen days later, at almost four o'clock in the afternoon on a Saturday, Hermione Granger, Tomb Raider, stormed into Draco's library and his life.

He was three steps up a ladder, reaching for a papyrus scroll. He wore white gloves to protect the relic. He also wore black robes, black trousers, a white shirt buttoned up to the top, an aqua-yellow-and-red striped sweater vest and a green bow tie. His hair was slicked back in the style he now favored. When the bang of a door opening resounded through the reverent hush of the library, Draco looked up, and his glasses slid halfway down his long nose.

"Sweet Sappho's Left Tit!" he heard Twillery say.

"Malfoy!" a woman shouted.

Draco didn't recognize the voice, but he was certain that no one had shouted in the library since… ever. Leaving the scroll in place, he climbed down the ladder, straightened his bow tie and walked out of the aisle.

Hermione Granger stood at the entrance of his library, practically glowing in the summer sun that beamed down from the skylight.

She didn't look like Lara Croft. Somehow, she looked better.

She wore a white tank top, khaki cargo pants (was that pocket squirming?), dusty boots and a rugged, brown fedora that had seen better days. At an age when most women were gaining weight, Hermione was an attractive combination of curvy and slim, with fit arms and a tiny waist. The strap of her faded, leather bag ran diagonally from shoulder to hip, accenting a pair of magnificent, firm breasts worthy of a twenty year old, much less a forty-year old. Her dark hair was still bushy, long and wild. She'd pulled it back into a careless ponytail, leaving two thin braids decorated with jade beads hanging over one shoulder. Her skin was golden except where it was nicked with tiny, white scars or marked with tattoos. Bold ink twined around one arm. Delicate ink gloved the other hand, like the henna of an Indian bride. And Draco suspected that the ruddy color slashing down one of her cheekbones wasn't dirt.

She was adventure personified – radiating confidence, daring and danger. Her dark eyes still shone with a fierce intelligence, but now they were eyes that seen six of the Seven Magical Wonders of the World. For Merlin's sake, she had a _whip_ twined around her belt loop!

Hermione Granger, Tomb Raider, was bloody beautiful.

After a moment, she smiled, her teeth white against her tan skin.

"You look good, Malfoy," she said.

Draco felt his heart stumble across a few beats. He felt a strange, distracting heat in his pants. There was pressure, too, as if a hand were pushing against his dick. What was wrong with him? He looked down and saw the faintest hint of a tent in his trousers. He was hardening. He was getting hard!

Draco stared at his crotch, breathless and amazed.

Then he felt a sickening sweep of nausea.

And then he fainted.

* * *

**TO BE CONTINUED**

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

I Googled the various names/sites of Hermione's archaeological exploits and Draco's rare texts. I have actually climbed to the top of the pyramid of Nohoch Mul in Coba, Mexico, so that was fun to include. Credit to Core Design for the creation of Lara Croft and _Tomb Raider_. Also, much love to the character of Indiana Jones, who was created by George Lucus and brought to life by Harrison Ford. I think it's obvious that Indy served as my inspiration for Hermione Granger, Tomb Raider.

**Thank you for reading - reviews are welcomed!**


	6. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER SIX**

* * *

It was the green bow tie that gave him away.

The Draco Malfoy of yore might have eventually worn glasses and even awful sweater vests as the assistant and successor of Zenodotus Bracken, but he would never have paired an aqua-yellow-and-red striped sweater vest with a green bow tie. Not unless he was trying to distract. Not unless he was trying to hide something. For the last twenty-two years, and arguably even longer than that, it had been Hermione's calling to analyze clues that led to the discovery of lost treasures. As she stared down at Malfoy's unconscious body, his secret was evident. She wondered how he could possibly fool anyone. Were people really that thick?

Malfoy was bloody gorgeous. And probably bloody fit as well. She'd had no idea he looked like _this_ when she'd read all his clever owls with an irrepressible grin. She nudged one of his broad shoulders with the toe of her boot.

"Aren't you going to Renervate him?"

Hermione looked up to see the woman who had called out to Sappho's left tit. She wore white gloves just like Malfoy. Most likely, his assistant.

"No," Hermione answered. "I'm performing research." She dropped to a knee and ran one hand over Malfoy's shoulder and bicep, then over his firm thighs and flat stomach. He _was_ incredibly fit. She was tempted to lift his shirt and sweater vest, to have a good look at his abdomen, but decided against it.

All in good time.

She wasn't in such a hurry, now that the Mexican Ministry of Magic was taking its time examining her permits. Better to go through the proper channels and wait them out rather than risk the fate of such an important artifact. It belonged in a museum, not in some drug lord's poolside cabana.

Hermione traced her fingertips along the strong line of Malfoy's jaw. His bottom lip was like something out of Egyptian sculpture. Just beautiful. She untied his green bow tie and loosened the top two buttons on his shirt, to admire the masculine curve of his throat. Then, with her initial research complete, she stood up and addressed the assistant.

"I'm Hermione Granger. I'm here for the journal of the scribe of Conquistador Francisco de Montejo."

"What about Mr. Malfoy?"

"He'll be fine. Best to leave him in place."

"On the floor?"

"Oh, that's nothing. Try sleeping in an erupting volcano."

When Hermione smiled, the woman flushed and led her directly to the book she needed.

* * *

_Malfoy,_

_I did _not_ burn down the underwater temple at Mahabaliparam. You know very well that pirates were responsible for that, and the destruction was a devastating loss. And, yes, a certain, secret amulet was found in pristine condition in a pile of tiger shite. That's what river water is for. Good as new. Speaking of pristine condition, thank you for loaning me that book. If you want to rescue it, I'm having dinner at Harry's tonight. He and Ginny live in the Burrow now with Arthur and Molly, in the village of Ottery St. Catchpole in Devon. Come hungry._

_Sincerely,_

_Hermione Granger, Library Raider_

* * *

When Hermione arrived at the Burrow, unannounced, almost seven months before she was expected, Molly Weasley shrieked and dropped her pot roast. Soon, the rest of the household – which consisted of Arthur, Harry, Ginny, James, Albus and Lily Luna – had descended upon Hermione in a massive hug. After a series of Floo calls, Apparitions and harried owls, the crooked house was packed to the brim with sixty-two of her closest friends. The party spilled out into the garden, where Ron and Bill erected a white canopy which Fleur decorated with colorful ribbons transfigured from reeds.

"It looks like your wedding," Luna said to Fleur. With a swish of her wand, Luna changed her blue dress into a yellow one. "Yellow is so much better for a summer celebration, don't you think?"

Across the lawn, teenaged Lucy, who only wore black and listened to punk bands like Tainted Snitch, raved about Hermione's latest tattoo, a clay-red slash down her left cheek.

"It's on your face, Aunt Hermione! On your _face_! Do you know how hardcore that is?"

"Well," Hermione answered, shrugging, "how else I was going to get the Rolaka'i to trust me?"

"The Rolaka'i… yeah. Ice." Lucy said _ice_ all the time. Must be the new, hip word.

An hour later, Hermione knew the exact moment that Draco arrived at the Burrow. While conducting her research on his hot, prone body, she'd severed a lock of his hair. After a shower (before which Ginny had begged her to "please shave your legs and pits") Hermione had changed into a clean top and shorts, pulled her hair up into its normal ponytail and tucked Malfoy's blond hair into the front of her knickers. It was charmed to tickle her whenever he came within fifty meters. Halfway through swapping dragon stories with Charlie, the tickle made her catch her breath and smile. She looked up to see Draco cutting a swath through the party - a Firebolt in one hand, his glasses crooked and his hair wind-tossed. He was an interesting mix of barely-suppressed fury and staid civility with his sweater vest and green bow tie. All buttoned up again and mad as a wet cat.

"Granger," he practically growled. How wonderful.

"Malfoy," she answered, giggling.

"What are you laughing at?"

"Nothing. I'm just ticklish."

Draco narrowed his eyes as he stared at the twelve inches of empty space between her and Charlie. With a smirk, Charlie – whom Hermione knew was interested if she ever changed her mind – wiggled a finger at her, threatening to tickle her recently-shaven armpit. She gave his hand a vicious slap.

"Where is my manuscript?" Draco demanded, ignoring their horseplay. "You had no right to take it. It's very fragile. It belongs in the library! This heat alone -"

"Malfoy, it's fine. The temperature inside the house is quite cool."

Draco stared at the Burrow with suspicion, as if he expected the house to come to life, reach inside one of its windows, pull out the book and devour it - like Harendrylliax preparing for winter. What Hermione liked about Draco (aside from his fit physique, his witty owls, his dedication to the preservation of books and knowledge – oh, and his ridiculous fashion sense) was that he was the only person here, other from Minerva, who would know the myth of Harendrylliax.

"Calm down," she said. "Have a pint. Take off your sweater. You are aware it's summer?"

"No need, Granger, because you're going to take me into that quite-cool house right now and give me back my five-hundred year old manuscript."

Hermione giggled again, which made Draco frown. His hair really was ticklish.

"Fine," she said, standing up. "Follow me. I'll give it to you."

* * *

**TO BE CONTINUED**

**Author's End Notes:**

Zenodotus , the first name of Head Librarian Bracken, was the name of the first librarian of the legendary Library of Alexandria.

**Thanks for reading - reviews are welcomed! :)**


	7. Chapter 7

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

* * *

Hours earlier, Draco had woken up on the library floor, his emotions shifting from disorientation to shock to wrath. How dare Granger steal that book? Never having been to Ottery St. Catchpole, he'd been forced to use a public Floo instead of Apparating and then travel the last few kilometers on his broom. His hair was messy. His clothes were coated in ash. And while in flight, he had a swallowed a bug, a large one. It was all Granger's fault!

But climbing the steep, rickety stairs of Potter's house, looking up at Hermione's khaki shorts-clad arse, Draco remembered why he'd fainted in the first place. An erection. Well, half of one. After twenty-six years, the smallest hint of a hard-on was enough to send hope blazing through him with meteoric force. Why now? Why her? He stared at her round backside with determination, willing his penis to rise again. It didn't, but he did feel a jittery sort of anticipation in his stomach. This merited further investigation. His gaze moved down the backs of her tan thighs. She had another tattoo, possibly Sanskrit, inked on her right leg right where the lacy top of a stocking would rest. Though he couldn't imagine this half-wild Granger in stockings.

When Hermione stopped abruptly, Draco's face almost collided with her arse.

"See," she said with a wave of her wand. Magic parted like smoke, and Draco felt power rippling over his skin. "I even warded the room. Wouldn't want Frank vomiting all over your precious book."

"Who's Frank?"

"Lily Luna's half-Kneazle."

Hermione led him into a small, attic bedroom. It looked like something out of a folktale – as rustic, twisted and romantic as a bramble of roses. The ceiling-walls slanted at impossible angles. They were crafted from planks of warm-colored wood. Faded rugs covered a floor of the same wood. There was a simple desk, a chair, a lamp, but Draco's eyes were drawn to the bed. It was plain, with flat pillows and no headboard, but light, tinged with soft sunset, spilled over its shabby quilt from the attic's only window.

"Here you go," Hermione said. Feeling dazed, Draco turned to see her holding the journal of de Montejo's scribe. She wore white gloves. "Do you want to see the symbols I found hidden inside of it?"

"No," Draco said. "Put it down."

"What?"

"Put it down, somewhere safe."

After a pause, Hermione very carefully placed the book onto the desk. She circled her wand above it, and Draco saw a protection of silver light form a dome over it before disappearing.

"I would never have damaged it," she said with a frown.

"I know."

Draco fell silent. He didn't know what to say. _You're smart and strong and beautiful_ didn't seem appropriate. Neither did _You intrigue me. You have for a year_. Or_ Kiss me. Break this curse. Give me an erection and make me come. Please._

No, he didn't know what to say. All he knew was that he wanted to stay in this hushed room with its luminous bed and with Hermione. He couldn't say it, but he thought it - _Stay_ - as he sat on the edge of the bed and gazed up at her. His heart pounded against the cage of his ribs. He tried to control his breathing, taking shallow sips of air into his lungs, but that only made him feel light-headed. Flushing, he dropped his gaze to the floor and waited.

It had been well-established that Hermione Granger was not stupid. Surely, she could sense what he desired. He heard her footsteps move across the creaky, wooden floor and the soft rugs. She still wore her dusty boots. Every step became a word, a round of echoes filling up his head. _Hope. Fear. Yes. Now. Please. Don't. Fail. _

"Please don't fail," he said in a whisper too faint to be heard.

He felt the heat of Hermione's skin as she stood close to him, not quite touching but so near. He stared at her boots until he felt her hands in his hair. Then he gasped and closed his eyes, swept up in sensation. He had forgotten how good it felt, the sensory luxury of simple, human touch. It had been so long, ten years, since Astoria had touched him with the tenderness of a wife. There had been a few years when it had been appropriate to hold his son, to hug him and kiss him goodnight, but not anymore. Scorpius was thirteen now. Less than two months away from his invitation to the Temple Rati-Rahasya, an invitation that would never come for the boy because of his father's stupidity.

Draco opened his eyes and gazed up at Hermione as she untied his bow tie and tossed it away. Her fingers slipped the top two buttons of his shirt loose. When her knuckles brushed against his throat, his entire body shuddered with pleasure. Hermione kneeled down at the bedside, until she was looking up at him. Forcing himself to dare, he reached out one hand and stroked the side of her face, tracing the line that marked her cheek.

"Aren't you going to ask why I got a tattoo on my face?" she asked.

"No. How else were you going to get the Rolaka'i to trust you?"

Hermione smiled.

"Exactly," she whispered.

Draco barely had time to react to the sweetness of her fingers sliding up the back of his neck before Hermione pulled him down to her and pressed her lips against his. It had also been ten years since a woman had kissed him. His last kiss with Astoria had been desperate and sad, a wretched goodbye. Hermione's kiss was soft and promising, a sensuous slide of lips and tongues, a shared chalice of sighs and moans. Draco felt a tingling low in his belly.

_Please don't fail._

Hesitant, he reached up and stroked Hermione's hair. It was tangled and soft. When his fingers grazed the nape of her neck, she gasped, and the breathy sound flashed like spellfire through Draco's body. The tingling became a pleasurable burn, making his groin hot. He thought of his dick – flaccid, pink and worthless – and tried to dispel the image with a shake of his head. Hermione might be his last chance. He couldn't hold back. He had to try. He gripped the back of her head and deepened the kiss.

_Please don't fail._

She reacted to his boldness with a passionate aggression. Suddenly, Draco had a lap full of Hermione Granger, Tomb Raider, and it was fucking glorious. She was all around him - curves and soft skin, lithe muscle and hot touches. Hot kisses. She straddled him and pressed as close as she could, leaving no air between them, every inch of her blazing against every inch of him. He slid his hands over her thighs. She pulled the back of his shirt out of his trousers and slid one hand into his pants, grabbing his bare arse. Draco moaned, his hips snapping up on instinct. He felt strangely separate from his body, floating in sensation.

Until Hermione began to roll her hips, pressing against him, and he realized he wasn't hard. The burn inside had become painful, twisting up his guts.

The curse held. The curse would hold forever. He would always fail. His goddamned dick was a limp, useless thing. _He_ was a useless thing. Why did he keep torturing himself? Why had he bothered to hope again? Everything had been fine before Granger had stomped into his peaceful, well-ordered life.

She would notice soon.

"No," he said, pushing her away. "No."

The second he freed himself from her embrace, Draco stood up and stalked across the attic room, his back turned to her. He realized his glasses had fogged up so he took them off and put them in his shirt pocket.

"Draco, what's wrong?"

"I can't."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, I can't be with you!" he shouted.

"Why not?" she shouted back. "I don't… Draco, look at me."

He buttoned the top two buttons of his white shirt, a meager armor, before he turned to face her. She was on her knees on the bed, the attic window luminous behind her, sunset spilling over her skin. Kissing had made her lips red and swollen. Half her hair had fallen out of its ponytail and hung in wild curls over her shoulder. He could see her hard nipples through her tank top. She gazed at him with dark, seductive eyes. She wanted him. She could be his. If only.

He remembered Pansy and Theo and how he'd hurt them. He remembered Astoria and the strange, chaste compromise their marriage bed had become. Hermione would never compromise.

"Why can't you be with me?" she asked softly.

"Because…"

Draco faltered, afraid he might cry from the ache in his chest. He had to escape this pain. He had to escape _her_.

But Hermione was a hunter, and she would follow him. He knew her, had almost idolized her, the way she could take a word in an ancient manuscript or a symbol on a map and follow it to the ends of the earth, scaling mountains and swimming rivers until she found the dark path that led to the world's most sacred treasures.

She would pursue him with the same relentless focus. She would demand answers until she discovered his secret and then she would leave him devastated by shame.

"Because you're a Mudblood," he said.

Hermione gasped, her eyes wide, and for an instant, Draco saw the little girl she'd once been. As a boy, he'd called her that disgusting word because he'd been jealous of her abilities and triumphs. He remembered hurt shimmering in her large, dark eyes. But she had quickly learned to harden herself to him, to become strong. And for her whole life, she had only grown stronger and stronger. In a moment, she would remember herself. She would recover from the shock of his crude insult and hex him into oblivion.

Hermione took a deep breath, her eyes narrowing, and Draco Disapparated.

* * *

**TO BE CONTINUED**

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	8. Chapter 8

**Bonus Super Quick Chapter Update! :)**

* * *

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

* * *

"Morning, Albus," Harry greeted his son.

"Morning, Dad."

It was ten o'clock on Sunday morning, the day after the party celebrating Hermione's surprise visit.

Albus had risen at dawn, exercised, showered and written a letter to his girlfriend – a Hufflepuff who lived in Scotland – all before breakfast. His clothes were pressed, and his black hair lay neatly against his scalp, thanks a charm he'd mastered at age eleven. His green eyes were bright and alert as he read _Quintessence: A Quest_. It was a sixth-year text, and he had just finished his third.

Harry had rolled out of bed five minutes ago, after kissing Ginny and before taking his morning piss. Those were his accomplishments of the day thus far. His old tee-shirt and pajama bottoms were rumpled, his feet were bare, his black hair stuck out in all directions and his green eyes were bleary. Like most mornings, he'd forgotten he'd had Lasik surgery and had hunted for his glasses before remembering. Once in the Burrow's kitchen, he poured a cup of coffee into a mug shaped like a Hungarian Horntail, inhaling the delicious coffee smell of the steam charmed to rise out of its snout.

"Seen your Aunt Hermione?" he asked.

"Yes," Albus said without looking up from his book. "She's in the garden whipping a cucumber off the scarecrow."

"All right."

Harry was accustomed to hearing odd things about Hermione since she'd officially become an adventuress. Whipping a cucumber off a scarecrow wasn't any stranger than getting a tattoo on her face or jumping off an African waterfall into a Half-Time Paradox, whatever that was. He grabbed a blueberry muffin out of a basket on the counter and shuffled into the sunny garden.

Hermione wore a black tank top, khaki cargos (was that pocket squirming?), boots and her trademark fedora. Her hair was braided down her back. She held her whip in her hand.

"Behind you," Harry warned.

She turned and acknowledged him with a curt nod. "Don't come any closer than that row of sunflowers."

Harry chuckled when he saw Molly's scarecrow. Hermione had dressed it in one of Arthur's sweater vests and a bow tie and had given it white corn silk for hair. She had also used a Sticking Charm to place a cucumber on its crotch. Harry wasn't sure how generous Hermione had been with the vegetable because it had been significantly shortened by her whip and was now a pitiful, two inches long. A ceramic bowl filled with cucumber slices rested on the ground at the base of the scarecrow. Harry took a bite of muffin as he watched Hermione move her arm in a great, lazy loop and then expertly flick her wrist. The whip snapped forward with a startling crack, and one more slice of cucumber fell into the bowl. The poor scarecrow now had a one inch dick.

Harry had known something was up between her and Malfoy last night, and he'd known it hadn't ended well when Hermione came back to her party, furious. Her good mood hadn't returned for a full thirty minutes, not until she had taken a turn casting her Patronus to entertain Dean's baby girl.

"Harry, get me another cucumber," Hermione said as she rubbed her shoulder.

"Umm, I'm not comfortable touching Malfoy's fake dick."

"I'm not asking you to suck it," she said. "Just throw it here."

"Fine." Harry stared down at the vegetables in a quandary. It didn't feel right picking that enormous cucumber. He didn't want to imagine Malfoy's… _no_, he didn't want to. But if he picked one of those skinny, small ones, then Hermione would just be asking him for another one in two minutes. Sighing, Harry plucked the monster, holding its stem by two fingers as he tossed it to Hermione. She caught it one-handed and then magically stuck it onto the scarecrow's crotch.

"What that git doesn't know," she said, anger simmering in her voice, "is that I have a lock of his hair. Had it in my knickers all last night. Do you know what kind of damage I can do with that hair and this likeness? I know voodoo. I could chop off his actual cucumber."

_Whip!_

"Give him a giant pair of melon tits."

_Whip! Whip!_

"Make him dance through Hogsmeade wearing nothing but a bikini. Made. Of. Slugs!"

_Whip! Whip! Whip!_

Harry took a sip of his coffee before asking, "Something he said?"

Hermione dropped her whip and pulled out her wand. Wielding it with the same ferocious precision, she pointed at the scarecrow, and it burst into flames. She hadn't cast Fiendfyre. She wouldn't do that. But some wildness shaped her magic, the flames rippling with tiny, devil-like forms.

Harry took another sip of coffee and waited patiently. A minute later, Hermione extinguished the scarecrow with a wave of her wand. She bent and picked up her whip, looping it into a loose circle as she turned toward him.

"It was something he said," she whispered. "I thought I liked him so I kissed him. Then he pushed me away and called me a Mudblood."

Harry spewed out a mouthful of coffee. That was impossible. "He _what_? "

"I know. It's utterly reprehensible after all these years."

"No, Hermione, you don't understand. Malfoy doesn't think that way anymore. I know he doesn't."

Hermione studied Harry's expression as she hooked her whip onto her belt. He seemed to have woken up in the space of a second, his green eyes wide and earnest. He was absolutely confident in his statement about Draco.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"Malfoy doesn't think that way anymore. The opposite, actually. He doesn't speak to Goyle anymore because of it."

"They could have had a falling out about anything."

"But they didn't."

She listened as Harry told her about the day he'd overheard a conversation between Malfoy and his son, Scorpius, when the boy was a first year. It had been a conversation about prejudice and blood, worth and ability. About how wrong Scorpius' mate, Timothy Goyle, was. How wrong Gregory Goyle was.

_There was a girl in my year, Scorpius, a Muggle-born, and to this day, she's the most intelligent witch or wizard I've met in my life, the most able, the boldest. Do you know what she does now? She travels the world, finding lost treasure. She has adventures. She even fights pirates. Do you think that someone like her is inferior because she was born to Muggle parents? It's rubbish, those old beliefs. Do you understand?_

"No one was meant to overhear that conversation, Hermione. Malfoy thought they were alone in a corner table at the Three Broomsticks. They didn't know I was at the next table, under the Invisibility Cloak."

Hermione raised an eyebrow.

"Research," Harry said.

After the war, like Hermione, the Chosen One had taken an unexpected path. Instead of training to be an Auror or filling the vacant Defense position or playing professional Quidditch, Harry had started writing children's stories. Just for fun at first, but they were good. He had a flair for it. Now, under the pseudonym, Lillian H. Prongs, he wrote a popular series about an orphan and his two best friends who solved mysteries in their Animagus forms, which were a falcon, a cheetah and a penguin.

Harry sat down on the stone wall that bordered the north edge of the garden, and Hermione sat down beside him, deep in thought. Draco hadn't pushed her away because of some ridiculous prejudice, but he had pushed her away, in the one way guaranteed to succeed. Her treasure-hunting sensibilities were piqued. His actions were a riddle to decipher.

"When did Malfoy divorce?" she asked.

"About ten years ago."

"Any women or men since then?"

"I don't know. I've never heard about him with anyone. He spends all his time in that library."

After a pause, Hermione said, "He's hiding. He's afraid of something. Or has a secret."

"Maybe," Harry said with a shrug. "But if you like him, maybe you should give him another chance. Malfoy's not a bad bloke these days."

Hermione felt a surge of affection for her friend and his open heart. She took his hand in hers and said, "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

They sat together, in a moment of peaceful companionship, before Harry added helpfully, "Plus, he's got an enormous cucumber."

* * *

**TO BE CONTINUED**

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	9. Chapter 9

**CHAPTER NINE**

* * *

Sitting on Hermione Granger's bed Saturday night had been the second greatest mistake of Draco's life.

After Apparating home, he had stood at the foot of his own bed, tears flowing freely down his face. His unfulfilled desire had felt like a burning in his blood. It had made him shake. He'd wanted to destroy something, but he knew if he started, he wouldn't be able to stop, not until his room was ash. Instead, he dropped to the floor and did uncounted push-ups until he was dripping with sweat and his arms shook. Then he flipped onto his back and did uncounted crunches until his stomach cramped. Exhausted, he fell into a restless sleep on the floor. He dreamed of a ring of fire burning all around him.

When he woke up, his hand was stroking his soft dick and the carpet beneath him was sparking with his wild magic. Afraid he might set the Manor on fire, he Apparated to the edge of the gardens. The elves' potting shed was an ancient stone cottage, abandoned years before the Manor had been built. It had been a humble ruin on this land for centuries. Draco lifted his wand and blasted it to pieces, casting curse after curse, until there was nothing left but scorched, smoking earth.

He didn't feel any better.

Monday morning, he dressed as he always dressed and ate a spare breakfast. He summoned his head gardener, a house-elf named Flora, and apologized for the damage to the potting shed, promising to have a new one built to her specifications. Then he went to work, determined to forget about Hermione Granger and regain his tranquility.

The library was a sanctuary of light and silence all morning. At midday, Draco heard the door open and close. A pair of shoes clicked across the marble floor. He was in the corner of the first floor dedicated to papyrus scrolls saved from the great, lost library of Alexandria. The shelves were designed so that the fragile, amber-colored scrolls could be pulled from either aisle that bordered them. He looked through the shelves but couldn't see who had entered the library.

"Sweet Sappho's Right Tit!" Twillery exclaimed. So it was her _right_ tit, now?

"Hello, again," Hermione Granger said. Draco's breath caught."Is Mr. Malfoy here?"

"Yes."

"Smashing. If you don't mind, I'd like to talk to him in private. Is it time for your lunch break?"

A moment later, Draco heard the door open and close again. Just like that, Granger had dismissed his assistant, who would obviously obey any order given by a bold, gorgeous woman.

"Lesbian," he muttered.

"Malfoy!" Granger called out. "I've brought back the journal. And your bow tie."

Much to his shame as a librarian, Draco had entirely forgotten about the stolen book. "Good," he said. "Put it down somewhere safe. Thank you."

"I'd rather you confirm its pristine condition personally. Where are you?"

When he didn't answer, she added, "I know two dozen locater spells, and one of them involves bees."

"The Alexandrian scrolls," he snapped.

She picked the aisle next to his. He watched her through the shelves and scrolls as she approached, only able to glimpse tantalizing flashes of tan skin, unbound hair and vivid blue fabric. She wasn't dressed in her jungle garb today, and the shoes clicking closer with every brisk step weren't her dusty boots.

When she saw him through the shelves, Hermione smiled, and Draco had to close his eyes to fight the dizzying surge of lust and longing that gripped him. When he opened his eyes, she was carefully placing the journal on the edge of a shelf. She wore white gloves, just like him.

"There you go," she said. "No harm done."

"Thank you," he replied. His voice was terse and dismissive, but Hermione didn't leave. She watched him through the shelves, following him as he moved from scroll to scroll, trying to ignore her.

"Draco," she finally said. "I know you don't use the word Mudblood anymore, so why did you last night?"

"My beliefs haven't changed," he lied with Slytherin ease. "I'm just more circumspect about expressing them since Lillian H. Prongs saved the world."

Hermione laughed. "Funny you should mention Lillian. Yesterday, he just told me a story about you and Scorpius."

"Scorpius?" Draco stopped pretending to sort scrolls and stared at Hermione. Why were she and Potter talking about his son?

"Yes," Hermione said. "How you told Scorpius that his mate, Timothy Goyle, was wrong. That Gregory Goyle was wrong. _It's rubbish, those old beliefs._ Isn't that what you said?"

Draco felt panic start to prickle in his fingertips. He remembered every word he'd said to Scorpius that day in the Three Broomsticks. It had been one of the most important conversations of his life. He'd been determined to teach his son to keep an open mind, to not be thoughtless or cruel. To not make the same stupid mistakes his father had made. Somehow, Potter had overheard, and now, he'd told Hermione everything.

Everything.

"You talked about me that day, too," she said. "_There was a girl in my year… a Muggle-born, and to this day, she's the most intelligent witch or wizard I've met in my life, the most able, the boldest._"

Trapped by his own words, Draco didn't know what to say, so he said something idiotic. "How do you know I wasn't talking about someone else? Rather arrogant of you, Granger."

"Oh, please, I'm brilliant, bold and Muggle-born. And I fight pirates. Any other girl in our year fit that description? The real question is this - why would you say such wonderful things about someone you hate."

She was relentless, just as he'd known she would be.

"Just leave," he said wearily. If she didn't, he would. He would Disapparate, go far away and try to think of some other way to push her out of his life.

"Don't you dare," Hermione said. Her tone was a command.

"Don't I dare what?"

"Don't you dare run away again," she said. "And leave your library unprotected."

Suddenly alert and wary, Draco glared at Hermione through the shelf. She was taking off her white gloves, and for a moment, he was transported back to a hospital bed in St. Mungo's, to the day so many years ago when Astoria had slipped off her white glove and slapped some sense into him. The memory distracted him. By the time he realized that Hermione was reaching for one of the scrolls – an _Alexandrian_ scroll – with her bare hand, it was too late. He lunged for it, but she had slid it out of the shelf and now held it with _two_ bare hands. The oils on her skin – they could be ruinous to such fragile fibers!

"Put that back!" he ordered.

"No." Hermione unrolled the scroll and began to read it.

"Stop touching it!"

"No."

Draco was too frantic to Apparate to her. He couldn't risk splinching himself and spraying blood onto the scrolls. He ran down his aisle as fast as he could, skidding around the end of it before running down Hermione's aisle, his heart racing with fear. Those words had been written by Plutarch himself!

"I said stop touching it!" he bellowed. His voice echoed through the library. He stopped before Hermione, breathing hard, his glasses fogging up _again_, too afraid to take the scroll by force. She held History captive in her hands.

"Draco," she said. "Do you really think that I would touch this so thoughtlessly?" She lifted one hand and wiggled her fingers. With an almost draining sense of relief, Draco saw the watery shimmer of a Shield Charm coating her skin. "This was written by Plutarch's own hand," she said. "It is sacred."

_I could fall in love with her._

The thought hit Draco like a volley of spells. It left him reeling as Hermione rolled up the scroll with practiced care, exactly as he would have, and placed it back onto its shelf.

_And that would make everything ten thousand times worse. _

"Now, if I have your full attention," she said, "why did you really leave me Saturday night?"

When Draco recovered from his shock, he did give Hermione his full attention. She looked different. She was wearing a sleeveless dress with mother-of-pearl buttons down the front. It was a bright, Aegean blue, the sort of long, casual sweep of linen that a young heiress might wear to the bazaar in Marrakesh. But instead of pairing it with heels and a giant hat, Hermione wore flat, leather sandals and her khaki bag over one shoulder. Her long hair was entirely loose and wild, except for its two, jade-beaded braids. Kohl lined her eyes, making them look Egyptian and gorgeous.

"Well?" she prompted.

"I can't tell you why I left," he said with all the honesty he dared, gazing at her. "You're just going to have to trust me. I just can't be with you, Hermione."

"That answer's not good enough to interrupt a truly phenomenal first kiss, Draco. So, if you don't mind…"

Hermione kissed him. It felt so wonderful that he surrendered, even though he knew it would only lead to torment and heartache, even though he knew there was no hope. He kissed her back, helpless against his desire. She turned their bodies and pushed him back against the wall, safely away from the scrolls. He took off his white gloves and his glasses. Reckless, without a thought in his head but pleasure, he reached up and touched Hermione's breast through her blue dress. It was round and firm, the nipple hard. She moaned into his mouth and arched her body against his hand. Entranced by her reaction, that _he_ could make her feel so good, he rubbed his thumb back and forth across her nipple. Hermione shuddered and started making the most erotic sounds, little gasps and groans and whimpering sighs. Pansy had been like this before he'd pushed her away. Astoria never had. They had always kept their touches mild so that he wouldn't suffer the fiery pain of his frustration.

But he could have done this for her, he realized. He could have done this for his Astoria when she had still been his Astoria. She'd been a saint to him, and he was nothing but a selfish prick. Overwhelmed by his desire to make Hermione come, but having no idea what to do, Draco deepened their kiss and began to fumble with the buttons on the front of her blue dress. Hermione's hands moved down his body, skimming over his sweater vest, over his chest and stomach. When he had freed enough buttons, Draco cupped Hermione's breast through her silky bra. God, she felt so good. He forgot to push her away before her hands moved lower. She pressed her palm eagerly against the front of his trousers.

Against his limp, useless dick.

They both froze, their kiss stopped, their labored breaths mixing. Hermione's hand didn't move.

"Oh, God," she whispered. She squeezed her hand once against his softness and then snatched it away, as if burned. She stepped back out of his embrace, her dress slipping down one shoulder.

"You don't want me. I just threw myself at you, and you don't want me."

"Hermione."

"I _am_ arrogant. Fuck! I'll go now. I'll leave. I'm so sorry."

"Hermione."

_Wait_.

He didn't say it as she took two steps backwards, her face flushed with mortification. He didn't say it when she turned away from him and rushed down the aisle, her wild hair fluttering behind her. He didn't say it when she disappeared around the corner of the shelves, running now, her sandals clicking with each footfall. Draco closed his eyes against the agonizing pain in his chest.

This was perfect. The perfect excuse. It would be better this way. He would never see her again. She would stop sending clever owls. She would go raid tombs and forget all about him. He would struggle to regain some sense of peace and try not to dream about her every night. He just had to keep his emotions under control for a few more seconds. A few more steps.

The library's front door opened.

* * *

**TO BE CONTINUED...**

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	10. Chapter 10

**CHAPTER TEN**

* * *

"Wait!" Draco shouted. "Wait!"

He was running, praying she wasn't gone. When he turned the corner and saw her at the door, staring at him wide-eyed, he thanked God for this chance. He stopped a step from her and fell down onto his knees and pulled her close by the blue linen of her dress. He rested his forehead against her thigh and confessed.

"Hermione, I want you. I want you so much, more than I've ever wanted anyone in my life. But I'm cursed. I've been cursed since I was fourteen years old. I was cursed by a sex witch. I'm a virgin."

Draco told her everything. How he had behaved at the Temple Rati-Rahasya and Izolda Romanov's curse. The morning he'd discovered he couldn't get an erection. The failed wanking, the pain and frustration. The ring of fire. Every potion, pill and experiment through the long years, each one a failure. Pansy and Theo. The whores and the rent boys. The alcohol-induced haze. How Astoria had saved his life and how she had given him Scorpius. His regret and loneliness. How he felt like half a man. How desperately he'd missed being touched. How he hadn't even known that until she'd touched him.

How she made him feel.

It all came spilling out, confessions spoken as if in a trance. When he finished, he realized that he was lying on the floor of the library, his head in Hermione's lap. She was stroking his hair. Tears had cooled on his cheeks.

After he fell silent, she lifted his hand to her lips and kissed his knuckles. "Feel better?"

He nodded, and it was true. He did feel better, lighter.

"Do you think there's a way to break the curse?" she asked. "Do you still have hope?"

Draco paused before answering. "Romanov died twenty years ago. I don't know where the temple is. I've tried everything. I've tried for twenty-six years. It's hard to keep hold of hope."

"I know," Hermione said, kissing his hand again. "But I need you to give me a chance."

"A chance to do what?"

"To help you."

Draco was filled with an overwhelming tenderness toward Hermione. He let go of her hand, twisted his fingers around her braids and gently pulled her down for a sweet kiss. She took that as a _yes_.

"I'm hungry," she said. "Take me to lunch, and tell me exactly what Romanov said when she cursed you."

* * *

Hermione read, "_For insult given, may my curse upon you endure unto your death."_

She had written the part of the curse that Draco could remember on a pink paper napkin. They sat at a table outside Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor, sharing a butterscotch sundae after lunch at the Leaky Cauldron. "But… _May you only make amends and be restored by demonstrating to me the virtues of humility and respect."_

"Demonstrating to _me_," Draco repeated. "So says the dead witch. Therefore, it's impossible for me to make amends or be restored."

"Perhaps not. You don't remember what she said before that?"

"It was foreign. I didn't recognize the language. I didn't even know she was cursing me until the parrots told me."

Hermione looked down at their tablecloth, tracing the line of one of its yellow stripes with her finger. "Just now, you said, _so says the dead witch_."

"Yes."

"Well, there are ways to speak to the dead."

Hermione watched Draco as he considered her statement. The June sun shone on his white-blond hair. Despite the warmth, he wore his white shirt all buttoned up, a green sweater vest with a center stripe formed of little brown owls and a red bow tie. His glasses were slipping down his nose. He looked awkward and adorable. She couldn't wait to take off his ludicrous clothes and see the strong, fit body he kept hidden underneath. All she'd glimpsed so far was his Adam's apple, and just that had left her a bit breathless.

"Ghost or portrait," he said.

"Probably not a ghost. A portrait's more likely, to immortalize such a well-regarded sex witch."

"But a portrait can't perform magic. It can deliver messages at best."

"I don't think you realize how powerful Izolda was and might still be."

"I think I do," Draco muttered. "Anyway, it doesn't matter. Her portrait would be in the temple, and the location of the temple is secret. I thought my father knew where it was, but no one does. The Portkey was sent by owl two weeks before my fourteenth birthday."

"When does Scorpius turn fourteen?" Hermione asked.

"August 2nd," he said with a sigh.

"Oh, don't fret. We have more than enough time," she said, taking a final bite of butterscotch sundae. Draco looked at her, his eyes focused on the spoon in her mouth. She took her time licking it clean.

"You seem very confident," he said softly.

"I'm Hermione Granger, Tomb Raider. Finder of lost treasures. Of course, I'm confident. Let the hunt begin."

She stood up and he followed suit as she began to rummage through her khaki bag, shoulder-deep. Finally, she made a triumphant sound and pulled out a glossy black sculpture of giant penis. Bloody hell! It had to be at least a foot long. Was that obsidian? Hermione held the dildo out to Draco, gripping its base, and he stared at her in shock. She was insane. They were in the _middle_ of Diagon Alley.

"Put that thing away! Children might see it!"

"Just grab it."

"No!"

"Why not?"

"It's… big."

Hermione rolled her eyes, pulled her wand out with her free hand and tapped it against the tip of the penis.

"_Portus_, she whispered.

Draco's eyes widened. He grabbed the middle of the thick, black dildo half a second before he felt a sensation like a hook behind his navel. He was flung backwards through a bright, whirling vortex.

He landed on his arse on the terrace of the Temple Rati-Rahasya.

Hermione had landed on her feet. She dropped the black dildo back into her bag and stared down at him with a happy smile.

"The hunt is over," she announced.

* * *

**TO BE CONTINUED**

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	11. Chapter 11

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

* * *

A young house-elf wearing yellow scarves and jewelry in her lopsided bellybutton walked out onto the terrace to welcome them.

"Greetings, Miss. Greetings, Sir," she said with two, little bows. "Priestesses did not tell Ada that visitors were invited today."

"Greetings, Ada. Please tell the High Priestess that Hermione Granger is here to see her. I'm the one who dug that statue out of the ground fifteen years ago." Hermione pointed at a stone carving of the curvy goddess, Rati. "I also removed a rather nasty Body Melt curse from it. I think that's invitation enough."

"Yes, Miss. And who is Sir?" Ada stared at Draco's pale blond hair, her bat-like ears twitching.

"I'm Draco Malfoy," he said. By some miracle of anatomy, the elf's bulbous, blue eyes grew even larger.

"Are you Snow Kitten?" she asked, her voice disbelieving.

"_Are_ you Snow Kitten?" Hermione asked, her voice amused.

Draco felt his face blush hot. He knew his ears were bright pink, but there was no denying the truth.

"I am Snow Kitten," he said, lifting his chin proudly.

With a squeak and a pop, Ada Disapparated.

When Draco caught Hermione's questioning stare, he shrugged. "That's what the High Priestess called me for some reason. She called Father White Snake."

He turned to gaze out from the terrace at the same sapphire-blue lake and mountainous, green jungle he remembered from his youth. He had lived through twenty-six years of pain, struggle and frustration. Hermione had brought him to the threshold of real hope in less than two hours. She was incredible.

"Do you like my surprise?" she whispered behind him.

Draco turned and pulled her into his arms, leaning down for a long, soft kiss. "I love your surprise," he murmured against her lips when they had to stop to breathe. "Why do you have a Portkey to Rati-Rahasya?"

"I met Izolda Romanov at an orgy when I was twenty-one, just a few months before she died."

"An orgy?"

"Yes, in Istanbul."

Draco imagined Hermione, tan and twenty-one, writhing naked in a bed with a dozen strangers. He knew if he were healthy and whole, he'd be hard as granite now and bending her over the balustrade of the terrace. Instead, he held her tighter and said, "Tell me more about this orgy."

"Izolda said I had sexual promise. She wanted me to join the temple, as an initiate, but I had too much wanderlust to stay in one place. Still do. But if I were ever to change my mind…"

"She gave you a giant, black dildo."

"Yes."

"And do you…" He imagined Hermione using the obsidian dildo for purposes other than travel and felt an ache low in his abdomen. "Never mind."

She twined her arms around his neck, pulled him down and whispered in his ear, her breath hot. "Yes, I do."

"Fuck," he muttered, seizing Hermione's hips possessively. Suddenly, he didn't care about his cursed dick anymore. He just wanted to make this amazing witch come, over and over and over. He didn't know what to do to please her, but he knew she would teach him, with patience and smiles.

"Mistress Heather will see you now," Ada said. "Please follow me."

Draco groaned into Hermione's hair.

* * *

The High Priestess Heather was the same woman who had deflowered Gregory Goyle when he was fourteen. She wore red silks now instead of blue and was more beautiful than she had been in her youth, with luscious curves and hazel eyes that sparkled with sensual wisdom. They all sat on tasseled pillows on the floor. She and Hermione traded civilities. Nervous, Draco drank two glasses of the glowing, purple liquor and felt fuzzy-headed. Where had his discipline gone? When Hermione asked if Izolda's portrait had been painted, Heather shook her head, and Draco's heart sank into his stomach. Hermione took his hand.

"So she believed in complete disconnection from the earthly plane," Hermione said. "For greater spiritual ascension."

"No," the priestess answered before popping a green grape into her mouth. "She just preferred a tapestry."

"A sentient tapestry?" Hermione asked.

"Yes. It's in my chamber."

"May we please speak with her?" Draco asked, leaning forward.

"Of course, Snow Kitten. She always thought you might return one day. Ada will show you both the way."

Everything was as Draco had remembered, except the space seemed smaller now. He and Hermione followed the elf through the painted archway and up the narrow staircase lit with gold lanterns. They passed through the corridor of portraits - the painted, veiled women making not-so-veiled comments. "Look at his shoulders." "Nice hair." "Darling, you have marvelous breasts." Draco heard one or two of them speculate that he was Snow Kitten. He had no idea why he had suddenly developed a fondness for the ridiculous nickname. Perhaps the purple liquor.

"I think I drank too much," he whispered to Hermione. She cast a quick Sobering Spell, and he took a deep breath, feeling alert and clear-headed. "Thank you."

"Just a moment, Miss and Sir," Ada said as she walked through the golden door. Draco looked at the tiny, carved couples shagging on its panels. He realized they'd been shagging since the doors were created and would continue to do so as long as the doors existed. He wondered if they moved among the panels and tried new positions.

"The Dexterous Butterfly," Hermione said, pointing. "That one's fun."

"It is?"

"Oh, yes," Hermione said with a lusty smile. Her gaze moved toward the top of the door. "The Erotic Accordion is also quite enjoyable. How flexible are you?"

As Draco studied the panel, trying to gauge his flexibility, the golden door opened and Ada appeared.

"Mistress will see you now."

This was it. The moment Draco had been wishing for, desperate for, since he was fourteen years old. His only chance for the curse to be reversed. His fear, hope and nerves tangled up into knots. He stood paralyzed, unable to breathe.

"What is it?" Hermione asked.

"I can't do this!" he gasped. "What if she sets the room on fire the second she sees me? What if she hexes my dick off completely? A limp dick is better than no dick."

"Draco."

"What is she seals up my arsehole or puts a nipple on my forehead? Hermione, I don't want a sealed arse! I don't want a nipple on my forehead!"

"Draco!" Hermione said sternly. She smacked him hard on the forehead he was so worried about. He looked down at her, blinking like an owl. "At the very least," she said, "you owe Izolda an apology."

She was right. Of course, she was right. He had to make amends. It was his only hope, and even without hope, it was the right thing to do. When he nodded, Hermione took his hand and led him into the chamber beyond the golden door.

The room possessed the same, lush, exotic beauty as the rest of the temple, on a more intimate scale. A great bed of intricately carved wood sat under a mosaic dome crafted with blue and silver tiles to simulate the night sky. Brilliant, patterned silks covered the bed and the walls. Incense burners and lanterns hung from the ceiling, filling the room with soft fragrance and light. The two Senegal parrots (they could live up to fifty years in captivity) still perched, side by side, on a swing in a large, golden cage.

"Snow Kitten!" Snow Kitten!" they squawked as he entered the room. The one on the left flapped its green wings and cried out, "Are you still stupid?"

"Something I've often wondered myself," a woman's voice said.

* * *

**TO BE CONTINUED...**

**Thank you for reading - reviews are welcomed!**


	12. Chapter 12

**CHAPTER TWELVE**

* * *

The feminine voice came from the tapestry that covered the far wall of the room. Woven into the tapestry by magical warp and weft, Izolda Romanov lay upon a likeness of her bed. However, instead of a bedroom, her setting was a half-wild garden with fruit trees, tall grass and a thousand flowers, the traditional _mille fleur_. A little, naked man and naked woman slept beside a blue-green ribbon of river in the background. Izolda wore pale blue veils and golden jewelry. Her dark, sleek hair, with its dramatic streak of white, lay over her voluptuous breasts. She stared at Draco with dark eyes, her lush lips neither frowning nor smiling.

He had been a daft fool. She was breathtakingly beautiful. He couldn't stop staring at the graceful curves of her body.

"Hermione," the priestess said, turning her gaze away from him. "So good to see you. Although I had hoped you'd be wearing your sexy jungle outfit, with the whip and the hat."

Hermione ran one hand over the front of her blue dress. "Well, I was trying to catch a man's eye today."

"It was already caught," Draco whispered.

"Snow Kitten!" the priestess snapped. Draco jumped. "Still as insolent as ever, I see. Speaking when you are not spoken to. Shut up and come closer."

After a second's pause, Draco stepped forward, his hand sliding out of Hermione's. He walked to the tapestry and humbly and silently submitted himself to Romanov's inspection, folding his hands behind his back. Her eyes roved over him, top to bottom and back again.

"_Wha_t are you wearing?" she asked disdainfully. Draco assumed her question was rhetorical and held his tongue. "Take it off," she ordered.

He slipped off his red bow tie, then his glasses, then his sweater vest. It seemed more respectful to fold the vest and place everything on a chair rather than tossing it all on the floor, but before he could, all three items vanished.

"I knew you still had magic!" Hermione said behind him. Draco's eyes flew to Romanov. She didn't hold a little tapestry wand, but she was smiling a knowing smile. The gold thread in her jewelry glimmered.

"Don't tell the portraits in the hallway," she said. "They'll be jealous, and they already gossip enough."

_She has magic_, Draco thought. _Even in death._ If she forgave him, she would actually have the power to lift the curse.

"You're not finished yet, Snow Kitten," the priestess said. When he hesitated, unsure what she meant, she waved her hand impatiently and said, "Your clothing. Take it off."

Draco blushed. The sex witch stared at him, as well as her two parrots. When he unbuttoned his white shirt and slipped it off his shoulders, one of the birds gave raucous encouragement. "Take it all off!" After he toed off his shoes and pulled off his socks, he realized the naked couple by the river on the tapestry had woken up. They gazed at him with lascivious expressions. By the time he had unbuckled his belt and dropped his trousers, the little couple was masturbating, their legs linked together. Draco held his wand in one hand, wearing nothing but black briefs.

"Pants, too! Pants, too!" the parrots screeched.

Draco took a deep breath, vividly aware that Hermione, the most important spectator of this striptease, stood behind him. He knew he was fit, but he also knew that she'd seen the world. A legendary sex witch has attempted to recruit her, at an _orgy_, because of her sexual potential. Hermione had probably had dozens, if not hundreds, of lovers and hundreds, if not thousands, of orgasms. What would she think of his body? What would she think of _him_ – a forty-year old virgin? He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his pants and pulled them off.

The room was silent for a full ten seconds before one of the parrots gave an appreciative whistle. The woven couple on the tapestry began to shag, in the Greedy Oyster position. Izolda Romanov studied Draco's naked body with shrewd eyes.

"So, Hermione," she said. "What do you think of Snow Kitten's body?"

Draco heard Hermione's sandals clicking as she stepped forward. He didn't turn to face her. He held his breath, his heart beating triple time. He felt the heat of her body behind him.

"May I touch?" she whispered, and her breath was hot on his naked back, making a shiver ripple down his body. He clenched his bare toes into the carpet. Pleasurable arousal burned low, in his groin. If he were whole, he would be so hard for her. He looked down at his dick, which lay in his pale blond pubic hair, against his bollocks. It was as limp, pink and useless as it had been since he was fourteen.

"Of course you may touch," the priestess said. "I would like a well-informed opinion."

Draco gasped as Hermione's warm fingers skimmed down his back. They stroked the curve of his spine, the cleft of his arse, one buttock, then the other. She let her touch circumnavigate his thigh until she stood in front of him. Draco closed his eyes, not daring to look at her, afraid he would lose control and sweep her up into his arms. He gripped his wand with white knuckles as she lightly caressed his hip before taking his soft dick in her hand. Pleasure unfurled inside him, and he couldn't help but moan. Hermione's hands moved again, up his stomach and chest. She passed her thumb over one, pale brown nipple, and he yelped. Bloody yelped! He heard the sex witch give a low chuckle. Hermione cupped the joint of his right shoulder for a moment before stepped back, her fingers trailing down his arm. Feeling dazed and amorous, Draco opened his eyes and stared intently at her.

"Izolda," she whispered. "He feels hot to the touch. In some places, like his cock, he almost burns. His skin is sleek. His muscles are firm. I think his body is beautiful - every curve, every hard angle. He takes my breath away."

Draco was almost undone by Hermione's praise. He heard the priestess talking, but not a word she said, until she snapped, "Snow Kitten! I am addressing you." Draco started, forcing his eyes away from Hermione. "I said you were well-formed," the witch repeated. "I assume you turned to exercise instead of drink to alleviate the frustrations of the curse."

"Yes, High Priestess."

"Oh, so I'm High Priestess now instead of a fat, old crone or a common whore?" Draco winced, remembering his terrible insults. He'd been worse than a fool. He'd been an utter twat.

"Turn around!" Romanov ordered. Draco obeyed, presumably to show off his arse.

"Mmmm," she moaned. "Will you look at that? He has the perfect, male ass."

"Yes, he does," Hermione agreed.

"Nice and pert!" one of the parrots squawked. The other one said, "Round cheeks!"

Draco waited, listening to the faint grunts and breathy cries of the naked couple on the tapestry come to a little crescendo as they climaxed. A few seconds later, Romanov said, "You may face me."

When Draco turned, he knew that the moment of truth had arrived. This was the hinge that would determine the path of the rest of his life. The High Priestess was no longer a sensual sex witch lounging on a silken bed. The tapestry has transformed, its edges fading into darkness. Romanov now sat upon a throne, her blue veils spilling like water down the steps of a dais. The branches of a great tree twined behind her. She was a queen, beautiful in her severity. She was Power and Judgment. Draco took two steps forward and kneeled, naked, before her, his head bowed.

"Look at me, Snow Kitten," she said. "And say what you came here to say."

For the second time that day, Draco was on his knees before a beautiful woman, words spilling out of his mouth. But this time, he wasn't frantic. He kept his chin up and his back straight. He didn't weep. His hands rested on his thighs, and his eyes never left those of the High Priestess, who gazed down at him, her thoughts unreadable. He spoke with a calm strength.

"I beg your forgiveness for the great insults I gave you. I was blind to not have seen how beautiful you are. I was stupid to think of you as a whore and this temple as a whorehouse just because you – the High Priestess of Rati - had deigned to grant me a sacred, sexual initiation. I deserved to be punished for these insults. I am forty now, not fourteen, and I realize how wrong I was. I am repentant. I am humble and respectful. Please forgive me." He took a deep breath and continued.

"I have a son, Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy. He turns fourteen on the second day of August. He's a good boy. Respectful. I've tried to teach him everything that I didn't know. He doesn't deserve to be punished for my actions. I beg that you and High Priestess Heather give him his own chance. If you will allow him entry into the Temple Rati-Rahasya to experience a pure-blood deflowering, I promise that he will honor and adore you. He will not give insult as I did."

"And for yourself, Snow Kitten?" the High Priestess asked. "Isn't there any particular favor you would like to ask for your own benefit?"

"Yes," Draco said, bowing his head. He saw Hermione's bright blue dress in the corner of his vision, but when he looked up, he gazed directly at the High Priestess again. "Please, if you deem me worthy of your forgiveness, I… I would be very, very happy if you could lift the curse on my penis."

The priestess stared down at him from her throne. Within the tapestry, a breeze blew, and her black hair fluttered through the fibers.

"And if I don't?" she said.

Draco felt pressure, like a vise, squeezing his chest. Romanov wasn't going to lift the curse. The hope he'd felt grew sliver-thin as he kneeled before the priestess, silently considering her refusal.

_Do you still have hope?_ Hermione had asked as she'd stroked his hair in the library. Hermione…

He looked at her, at her kind face, and felt the vise release his chest. He took a deep, dizzying breath, and a bright warmth filled his body, as if his blood were made of sunlight. He turned back to the high priestess. He knew exactly what to say, because he knew exactly what he wanted.

"If you don't lift the curse, I would understand. I greatly wronged you. But if the curse remains, I beg you, would you please reduce the pain it causes me?"

"Why should I?" Romanov asked. "As you yourself just said, I was greatly wronged."

"Yes, High Priestess. But if arousal was less painful, by even just a little, then I could give Hermione the pleasure she deserves, and I really want to be able to do that."

Romanov stared down at Draco with an openly incredulous expression. The wind inside the tapestry had grown stronger, and tiny flowers tumbled across its surface, some of them catching in the folds of her blue veils. Soon, the tapestry was in full transformation. It unmade and recreated itself with the shimmer of ten thousand magical threads. The throne disappeared, replaced by the bed and the garden. Tiny flowers and fruit trees grew from seeds in a matter of seconds. The blue-green river appeared out of woven grass. The little, naked couple rolled in from the west and proceeded to do the Reverse Slippery Python. The priestess lay upon her bed, her blue veils replaced by red veils in the time it took her to snuggle back into her pillows.

"That is an unexpected request," she said, smiling. "You might almost call it selfless. Hermione, are you willing?"

"Absolutely," Hermione said without hesitation.

"Good," Romanov said. "Snow Kitten, rise. Make Hermione Granger come, and I will consider all of your requests."

Elation swept through Draco. "Thank you, High Priestess!" He'd barely gotten out the words – or even off of his knees - before Hermione had run across the room and launched herself into his arms. They stumbled, falling together onto the soft rug in a clumsy heap of limbs, wands rolling out of reach as their lips met in a smoldering kiss.

Romanov laughed. "I was going to tell you to use the chaise. The bed's sexual energy would give Hermione an instant orgasm. But I suppose the floor will do just as well."

"Rug burn! Rug burn!" one of the parrots squawked.

The other, still enamored with Draco's bum, said, "Round cheeks! Round cheeks!"

"Round cheeks, indeed," Izolda Romanov murmured as her fingers slipped under her red veils and traveled a downward path to her divine treasure.

* * *

**TO BE CONTINUED**

**Thanks for reading - reviews are welcomed! :)**


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